I notice a poster on the wall mocking a dangling kitten with HANG IN THERE in all big, white letters. My eyes slide off that and they fall on a bust of Nefertiti. Except she sniffles and wipes her nose. Holy shit, she’s real.
Directly across from me a very tall girl sits on an aluminum folding chair. I’m instantly into everything about her. Even if I don’t want to be because girls, boo. Girls despise me; why wouldn’t this new one be any different? But she’s striking. In a way that’s like a neon-yellow bubble in a level not quite lining up, so instead she tilted the world and said, “There. That’s where it should be.” Everything about her is good and crisp: the skirt, the scarf, the boots; nothing has that super-relaxed, worn-in look. No scuffs, no soft folds. It’s all new. But then again, what do I know? I wear a uniform every day. She gets to wear whatever she wants to school.
She’s reading a book I read over the summer, and I can see she’s almost at the best part. I want to start a book club with her where we sit over cookies and talk about the strange ending where everything was just bathed in sun and then it was over.
As she reads, something about her catches all the light and holds it in her skin, divvying it about the room like cards for poker. Her legs, her willowy long legs. (Stop…keep it clinical.) She has two of them. She crosses them all ladylike despite, or because of, her short-short skirt and sky-high boots. Her dimpled knobby knees smile like they’re happy to be there. She plays with her long, curly brown hair and wears a loose purple scarf streaked with glittery bits. Our eyes hook as she lightly drapes it around her neck.
“Hi,” she says in a voice that reminds me of cinnamon being grated into a mug of hot apple cider.
“Hello.”
“You’re new.”
I nod once.
“I’m Jamie.”
“Dylan.”
“Hi,” she repeats, and goes back to the book. Long hands hold the spine. Long fingers flick the pages one after another.
“Sorry I’m late. Hi, guys!”
A woman comes busting through the door, holding a fat trapezoid pillow and dragging an office chair behind her. She can’t possibly be the doctor. “I’m late, I’m late, so horrible, forgive me,” she says. I can tell when she was a little kid, she must’ve been cute. Like, overalls and lisping, “Mithter, would you like to buy a glath of lemonade?” cute. The ringlets and freckles give it away.
She angles the trapezoid pillow behind her and settles into it. As she sits, her pants hitch up, exposing mismatched socks. Now I’m all irritated. She’s a doctor. She should wear a white coat, be on time, and wear matching clothes. “Ahh…,” she breathes. “Never deadlift televisions in your youth, guys. It may not hurt now, but I swear your back will remember forever.” The girls laugh but I smirk at the thought of anyone in this circle deadlifting anything heavier than a tissue.
“So we have a new person. Welcome!” she announces. “I’m Dr. Burns and this is group. We meet once a week, but I consider it more like hanging out in a really ugly room.” More laughter from the girls. Dr. Burns reaches into her bag and brings out a crusty notebook splitting at the seams with papers and stickies. “I think what you guys have to say is very important, so please don’t mind if I take notes. Does anyone want to go over some rules? Jamie?”
Jamie keeps her legs crossed and leans forward on the lip of her chair. Lucky lip. “Everything is confidential; we’re here to share, not to give advice. No interrupting. Anyone can ask whatever they want but no one has to answer,” she says like a trained monkey.
She’s been at this way too long.
“Good,” Dr. Burns says. “And most of all, I believe in laughter, so feel free to give in and laugh if you feel like it.”
I check on Mistress Raven, and I’ll be damned if she’s not smiling.
“Because we have a new member”—she refers to her notes—“Dylan, please raise your hand, thank you—we finally have an even number!” Dr. Burns high-fives the sky. Oh my god. “So let’s start off with an icebreaker by pairing up with the person directly across from you. I want you to tell each other five good things about yourself and then your partner will share your good things with the group, so pay close attention to one another. It can be anything. Okay? Go for it.”
The room rumbles as the girls shift about, and I watch as Jamie gets up and drags her folding chair across the room. She dunks it in front of me with authority and sits, instantly crossing one knee over the other. They line up like a lock and a key. I enjoy wondering which one is which. “I figured it would be easier to come to you,” she says, rearranging her scarf. “What happened to your leg?”
“Broke it.”
“Oh,” she says. “How old are you?”
“Fifteen.”
“Me too,” she says. “I thought you were older.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“You’re so big—how tall are you?”
“Is this what you really want to talk about?”
“I just…I’m tall too.” She looks away.